Blessed is the Larry
by Ed Harley
Summary: A guy with an umbrella tries to get into heaven
1. Chapter 1

St. Peter heard a knock. He ignored it and tried to go back to sleep.

Someone cleared his throat. "Um… excuse me…"

St. Peter opened one eye. There was some… thing out beyond the gate. He sat up on a cloud and sighed. It was probably just a cherub that got stuck outside the wall. St. Peter dug the gate key out of his pocket. "Alright, I'm coming already!"

Peter opened the pearly gate and didn't know what to think. It wasn't a cherub or any kind of divine creature waiting outside. It was a man, a normal human man carrying an umbrella.

"What… what the devil do you want? And what are you doing here?" St. Peter demanded. "Get back to Earth right this minute!"

Larry tucked the umbrella under his arm. "I'm Larry and I'm dead, I think… is this heaven?"

St. Peter snapped: "No, it's a Wal-Mart! Of course, it's heaven! Don't you know anything? And you can't be dead or you wouldn't be here to begin with!"

"I'm pretty sure I'm dead."

St. Peter roughly grabbed Larry's wrist and checked for a pulse. "Well… damn."

"So, can I get into Heaven now?"

"No, I'm sure you don't meet the requirements!"

"But I've tried to be a good person," Larry protested. "Really, I have!"

"We'll see about that," St. Peter retrieved the Golden Scroll of Larry's Earthly Deeds. "Hmm… must be something in here…"

"Aha!" St. Peter exclaimed. "On April, 5th 2001, you touched a pig!"

"Wait, that was just a guinea pig!"

"Oh… well then, let's see… you didn't eat shrimp or shellfish?"

Larry shook his head.

"How about wearing clothes of two different fibers?" St. Peter scanned the scroll. "You gotta be kidding me! You never had wool blend anything?"

Larry shrugged.

"Ever worship Baal?"

"No."

"Make a graven image?"

"Nope."

"Ever curse your parents or disobey them?"

Larry cringed. "I… I guess I did that... at some point… but I didn't mean it…"

"Goodbye Larry." St. Peter pointed a finger to banish him. Nothing happened. He tried it again. "Hmm… it's not working…"

"Well, the thing is; they weren't my real parents, exactly. I was adopted."

"Great," St. Peter swore. "Then it doesn't even count!"

The saint refocused on scrutinizing Larry's life; cross-referencing it with the extensive file of sins, blasphemies, and abominations listed in the scriptures. Peter checked Larry's scroll three times over before finally relenting.

St. Peter bitterly unlatched the gate. "Welcome to Heaven, Larry."

Larry dropped his umbrella and ran inside. He stopped on a golden street and looked in all directions. "Wait, where's everybody at?"

St. Peter stooped to pick up Larry's umbrella. "You're the first."


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2: Muhammad's on First?

The cracked yellow parchment was dated 28 A.D. and was signed by an Palestinian merchant. It had been addressed to the Roman Provincial Governor and automatically forwarded on to heaven. The letter of complaint centered around the unfair trade practices of one Jesus of Nazareth.

The parchment described a miracle in which Jesus conjured up loaves and fishes, and then distributed the food _free of charge_ to a large gathering of potential customers. The merchant complained that the flooding of the marketplace with free food was not only detrimental to the hardworking vendors but it was also destabilizing to the Roman economy as a whole. The businessman estimated the lost revenue at over 100 pieces of silver.

"Wow." Larry said in disbelief. "You really can't please everybody!"

St. Peter got up and grabbed the parchment out of Larry's hand. "Don't touch that."

The saint sat back down at his desk and then he groaned as another letter appeared in his in-box. "Idiots! Idiots! Why can they not get this right?" St. Peter fumed. "Can't they see it's addressed to Muslim heaven!"

It was the first time Larry heard about this. "You mean they got a separate heaven?"

"Well, they're certainly not coming in here!" Peter nodded in a direction Larry had never looked before. "It's over the wall. I'll take it over later."

Larry stood with his mouth open. Sure enough, there was a field of pockmarked blackened soil crisscrossed with coils of razor wire, and beyond that, a formidable stone wall. "There's people over there?"

"Yes."

Larry was eager to do something, anything. Rainbows and streets of gold were good for a while, but to see normal people again would be amazing! "Peter?"

"That's _Saint Peter_ to you."

"Sorry, Saint Peter..."

"I'm your superior, address me as Mr."

"Mr. Saint Peter," Larry complied. "Why don't you let me deliver that scroll for you?"

"You?" Peter scoffed. "Never make it."

"But I can do it! And... and there shouldn't be any danger." Larry argued. "Islam is a religion of peace, right?"

St. Peter rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Mr. St. Peter, I can do it!" Larry whined. "Come on, pleeeeaaase?"

"No."

Larry stood there right next to St. Peter for a very long time.

The saint concentrated on his work and made a point of not acknowledging Larry's presence.

Larry crossed his arms and hummed the theme to Hawaii 5-O.

St. Peter gritted his teeth and stamped scrolls forcefully.

Larry whistled the the Smurf song.

That was it! St. Peter slammed his stamp down so hard that it broke in his hand. He glared at Larry and his favorite ruined stamp. "You know what, Larry? I've changed my mind. In fact, I'd like nothing more than for you to go over that wall and deliver this parchment to... " Peter checked the name at the top. "...to Mr. Muhammad."

Larry was so excited. "Ooh, thanks Mr. Saint Peter! I won't let you down!"

Peter handed Larry the scroll and shooed him off. "And... hey! Take that stupid umbrella with you!"

…

The harp music faded away as Larry crawled under a coil of razor-wire and carefully followed a path across bare scorched earth. He held the parchment in his mouth since he didn't have pockets. Larry didn't see much need for clothes in the afterlife.

The old path wound amongst a system of trenches that terminated at a wall. An old wooden ladder leaned against the smoke blackened stones. Larry gripped the rungs hesitantly and began to climb.

Up near the top, Larry had to hang on for dear life. There was a blinding flash of light in the sky and then a booming concussion followed by sounds of debris hitting the dirt. When it calmed down, Larry climbed the last few rungs and got up high enough to peek over the top of the wall.

Black smoke drifted across a red hazy sky. Larry could make out a desolate scorched and cratered land, not unlike some old black and white photos of the trenched battlefields of Europe. Muslim heaven definitely had air quality problems.

The way ahead was treacherous but Larry was not one to go back on his word. Larry dropped his umbrella to the ground. Then he crawled on top the wall and let his legs dangle off the Muslim side. Larry backed off of it, gripping the ledge and lowering himself carefully. He looked down. It was maybe another five foot drop.

A startling flash and a stunning bang- Larry's grip faltered and he fell, landing flat on his back! The hard fall almost knocked him out cold. He groaned and rolled over, rubbing the dirt out of his eyes. Larry heard something move. His eyes were still blurry. He squinted- the thing that moved was an arm. A man's arm, from the shoulder down, lay on the ground with a bit of white smoke rising from its scorched flesh. The fingers clawed frantically and the pointer finger was doing the 'come here' gesture in a most disturbing way!

Larry scrambled up, grabbed his umbrella off the ground and retreated, back against the wall.

"Hey." A man called out. "Did you see a... oh, there it is."

Larry stood with eyes bugged out, holding his umbrella in front of him like a sword. The old man had a long gray beard and an ancient wool tunic and sandals. He casually stooped down and collected the fidgeting arm off the ground. The man smiled in a friendly way and shifted the severed arm to his left hand so he could extend his right. "Call me Ishmael."

Larry, being an Englishman, greeted the severed limb collecting stranger in a polite and civilized manner. Larry put down his umbrella, dusted off as best he could, and firmly shook the man's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ishmael. My name is Larry. Are you the guy from Moby Dick?"

"No," the bearded man said. "I'm from the Old Testament- son of Abraham and whats her name."

"Right..." Larry acted like he remembered. "Mr. Ishmael, the thing is, oh... I'm from Christian heaven by the way, I just climbed over the wall."

"That would explain your good condition." Ishmael observed. "We don't get many tourists."

"Oh... I'm here on business, actually. You see, I have this scroll to deliver." Larry explained. "Do you know where to find a Mr. Muhammad?"

"Muhammad? Eh, maybe. Why don't you follow me back to HQ..." There was another flash in the sky. Ishmael shook his weary head. "Ugh... here comes another one."

…

Ishmael and Larry traveled for half an hour, winding up the barren flanks of a steep-sided plateau. A fortified stone wall was at the top of the trail. Armored men holding pikes saluted Ishmael and pulled back the massive iron gate while others stood on top the guard towers, stoically surveying the battlefield below.

Ishmael led Larry to a massive stone citadel at the center of the fortress. He grabbed a lantern and they ascended four flights of stairs, all the way to a private office on the top floor. Ishmael said the first place to look for Muhammad would be the arrivals register. He pointed to a book of gigantic proportions that rested on a desk in the back corner of the room. It listed in alphabetical order all the arrivals, their date of arrival, and their last known location.

Larry helped himself while Ishmael brewed a fresh pot of tea. Larry pulled up a stool and opened the directory. Luckily, it was alphabetized and written in English. Larry peeled back several inches of pages and skipped to the middle. "Lets see... J... K... L..."

It was all going so well but Larry's eyes bugged out when he got to the 'M' section. It was at least six inches thick. "What? I mean... what? Is everybody named Muhammad around here?"

"Watch this." Ishmael chuckled to himself as he finished pouring the tea. Then he leaned out the open window beside the stove. He put both hands to his mouth. "Hey, Muhammad!"

Larry watched with dismay as at least a hundred soldiers standing in the courtyard below turned toward the tower.

Larry hung his head and sat down. "I told Mr. St. Peter I could do this."

"Bit of a stick in the mud isn't he?" Ishmael chuckled as he handed Larry a cup of Earl Grey. "Sugar?" Larry stirred a cube into his teacup.

"Tell you what," Ismael took a slurpy sip and nodded at Larry's scroll. "I'll take a look at it."

There was surprise in Ishmael's eyes as he took a close look. "Sheep hide. Eighth century probably. Hmm... not too many men named Muhammad back then..."

Ishmael scanned the body of the letter. "Looks like a legal document requested by a Mr. Muhammad- Appears to be a marriage contract between a fifty- four year old warlord and a six-year-old girl named... Aisha." Ishmael took a short angry breath. "Larry, this letter was sent to the Prophet Muhammad."

Larry jumped up and spilled his tea. "You know him?"

Ishmael nodded toward the battlements outside. "He's the one who got all this started, you know. This used to be good Jewish neighborhood before Muhammad got here! We had nice orderly houses, a city park with ducks and a pond, and there was a deli too- good food, not too expensive."

"But then, this new Prophet shows up. Middle of the night, no warning, no nothing! I remember it well. Sound asleep, then there's all this racket outside- so I get out of bed and put on my robe and step out on my front porch and I see this guy with wild eyes and a scraggly beard sitting on top of a freaking flying donkey! Right out in the street! I shit you not! This thing had a donkey's body with big bird wings out the sides! The donkeybird was hee-hawing and bucking and flapping while the rider waved a big scimitar above his head like he just escaped from the mental ward!"

Larry cringed. "And... that's Muhammad?"

Ishmael grimaced. "Yeah. I wish Samson had been here at the time. He would'a whooped Muhammad's butt and thrown him and his flying ass back to Earth!"

"Where's Samson?"

"Where else, chasing after some Philistine tail. That boy never learns."

Larry's mood lifted, his goal seemed a little more doable. "So where do I go to find the Prophet?"

Ishmael put up both hands in warning. "No... no... no... you don't go looking for him. In fact, you don't go past the wall without an armed escort." Ishmael looked Larry right in the eyes to make the point clear. "The Seventy-Two are out there!"

"Who's that?"

Ishmael gestured to the expanse of land visible from the citadel. "The Seventy-Two rule this place. Again, Muhammad's fault- he's always getting in over his head, not thinking things through. For whatever reason, prophets tend to get their wishes answered. And Muhammad asked for seventy-two virgins and that's what he got- seventy two virgins for every single soldier and martyr. Now, just for a moment, try to imagine how many girls that would be, popping into existence up here in heaven."

Larry scratched his head and tried to imagine. But everyone he had seen so far in Muslim heaven was male.

Ishmael continued: "But it didn't go quite according to Muhammad's plan. It turns out that all these virgins were watching how Muhammad's people treated women back on Earth, and they didn't like what they saw." Ishmael laughed without humor. "Imagine the surprise when these _holy_ warriors got to paradise and realized they're outnumbered 72-1 by an army of angry lesbians who hate men!"

Ishmael sat down in his easy chair, groaning like a weary old man as he sunk into the cushion. "Aaand... so the lucky ones were able to escape and hold on to a settlement or two- forts like this. We held this section mostly because of all the new recruits that come blasting through the tunnel. I just wish these martyrs were in better shape. Ever since they invented high explosives it's been a mess." Ishmael shrugged. "Just have to find two arms, two legs, a torso and a head. I patch them up best I can and send them to the wall."

Larry was almost afraid to ask. "What about the unlucky ones?"

"Slaves... the Seventy-Two use them however they see fit: as beasts to pull their chariots, or foot stools to rest their feet upon, or sometimes they make them rearrange all the furniture."

Larry cringed as he looked out upon the rows of trenches that encircled the fortress. "Well I... I still gotta try." Larry got a wonderful idea. "Ooh... how about a disguise?"

Ishmael shrugged. "Wouldn't recommend it, but if you do decide to go, bring that umbrella with you. You never know how a good umbrella can come in handy."


End file.
